


Aimpoint

by drop_an_idea_on_a_page



Series: Sua Sponte That Sh*t [2]
Category: Justified
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:04:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4383833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drop_an_idea_on_a_page/pseuds/drop_an_idea_on_a_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Aimpoint:  A point associated with a target and assigned for a specific weapon impact.'  But sometimes, you miss the target.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was combined with the oneshot "Left out in the Cold" for repost on AO3.

* * *

Rachel walked up the steps to the porch and knocked on the screen door. The inner door was open, it was a warm night for autumn, and she could just make out shapes inside the house in the dull evening light. She tried hard not to look in, feeling it would be an invasion of privacy, but finally couldn't help moving her head back and forth to see through the screen, hoping for a glimpse of her friend. She knocked again and heard another door open inside, and then watched Tim walk down the hall. She put on her smile before he pushed open the door.

"Hi," she said feeling that any words she could possibly come up with to follow the greeting would be useless and flat.

"Hey," Tim replied holding the screen open in invitation. "How's the arm?" he asked as she stepped in.

"Sore," she answered showing him the bandages.

He smiled in sympathy. "You want a beer? I was just sitting in the back. Or I've got some wine in the fridge."

"What are you doing with wine in the fridge?" she asked looking up at him in surprise and forgetting to be serious.

"You never know who's going to drop by. And don't you dare tell the guys at the office."

"I'd love a glass of wine," she conceded and followed him into the kitchen.

She always thought it funny that Tim lived in this old house in town, even after he'd told her the story of how he'd inherited it from his math teacher. Tim described her as this crazy old lady, old even when he was in high school, who saw something in him other than the miscreant, as he called himself, kept him interested in math, loaned him books to read, and later encouraged him to write his GEDs so he could get into the military. He told the story in an offhand manner, but it was clear he was grateful to her. He looked her up when he got back to Kentucky with the intention of saying thank you and discovered she'd retired in Lexington with her sister. By the time Tim came to say hi, the sister had already passed and she was living alone. He dropped in on weekends and helped her keep the place up. After she died, he was surprised to find she'd left him the house. He moved in to fix it up and sell it and never moved out. He liked the porch.

Tim poured Rachel some wine, opened himself another beer and led the way back out front. She kicked off her shoes and curled up on one of the old chairs and studied him carefully for a moment or two. The porch suited him.

"Tim," she started.

"Don't," he interrupted her, shaking his head. "There's nothing to say. It couldn't have gone down any differently. I wouldn't have let it. Neither would you."

"I feel terrible," she said, her voice hitching. "And Raylan, he's worried about you."

Tim raised an eyebrow at the last statement. "If he's worried I'm going to go off myself, he can stop. It's not my style."

Now it was her turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Look," he said, "last night, after I got back, I did a lot of thinking. Remember that story I told you about the guy in Afghanistan? Well, you just can't be mad at that sniper for shooting the kid or that Afghani kid for shooting at the soldiers. They had to do what they did. And you can't blame Frisk…" he stopped a moment and squeezed his eyes tight. "You can't blame him for reacting the way he did. Shit, he didn't know any better. It's all just fucked-up shit that happens. You can't control it so you can't blame yourself for it."

He needed her to understand that he couldn't have just watched it happen. Tim, the sniper, the Marshal, had to make that shot.

He got up and moved passed her into the house. She worried for a moment that she'd upset him, but he came back out almost immediately carrying a book.

"Here, listen," he said and he started reading.

_"I can see what the law is like. It's like a single-bed blanket on a double bed and three folks in the bed and a cold night. There ain't never enough blanket to cover the case, no matter how much pulling and hauling, and someone is going to nigh catch pneumonia."**_

"Now, he's talking about the law," Tim said, pointing at the book, "but I see it covering luck, too, or fate, whatever you want to call it. Frisk, Raylan and me, we all grew basically the same, we're like the three folks in the bed, and it's Frisk didn't get any of the blanket. Like that kid in Afghanistan, or the sniper – fate left them out in the cold. I guess if you want to you can find someone to blame. But I can't blame myself. Yesterday, Frisk wasn't under that blanket, and I guess I wasn't either." He went quiet and chewed at his lip.

"I'm probably not making any sense," he continued. "But I want you know I'm okay with it. I'm okay Rachel, really, I am. I'm torn up that I _had_ to take the shot, but I'm okay that I took the shot. Do you understand?"

Rachel stared at Tim for a few minutes. Then slowly she shook her head. "Raylan was right. You and literature, it's an interesting juxtaposition."

"Bite me," he said.

"In your dreams," she replied sarcastically and felt a little better.

They sat quietly, thinking, working on their drinks. She watched Tim closely until he turned and raised his eyebrows at her.

"Can I borrow the book?" she asked.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Tim slid through the doors into the Marshal's office behind two coworkers arriving at the same time. It had been over a week since the shooting and he hadn't got the summons into Art's office yet. He was dreading it. It was unfortunate for him that the only desk available when he started at the Lexington bureau was the one nearest Art. Some days he felt like the kid at school who always sat up by the teacher, the one always in trouble. In fact, he was that kid in school. He wasn't disruptive, he was always a bit of a loner, but he didn't pay attention in class and for some reason that always got the teachers upset with him.

He grabbed a coffee, sat as his desk and made himself as small as possible, his face right in his work.

Raylan amused himself watching him for a moment then leaned over the barrier and whispered, "Do you still have your ghillie suit? Maybe you should start wearing it in."

Tim narrowed his eyes at him and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could offer a retort an oppressive shadow grew over his desk and he looked up to see Art looming in front of him.

"Too late," Raylan said, and sat back at his desk.

"Tim," Art said, looking serious, "a word in my office."

Tim sighed, tossed his pen down and followed Art. When he got to the office door he stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned on the frame.

Art walked around behind his desk and sat down. He picked up a file from the stack on his in-tray and opened it.

"I got the report from the AUSA," he started and only then noticed that Tim was still in the doorway. He scowled at him. "All the way in," he said motioning to the chairs impatiently, "and shut the door."

Tim's eyes instinctively darted to the exit as he stepped inside the office, pulling the door closed. He put on his best gallows' walk and slumped into a chair.

"You and Rachel are clear on the shootings. No one expected it otherwise." He closed the report and leaned back in his chair his eyes focused a little too directly on Tim, serious, maybe even sympathetic. Tim preferred the scowl. "I know you and me have talked a bit about what happened. But you," he said, pointing a finger sternly at Tim, "still have to have a sit down with the psychologist."

Tim made a face.

"You know you look like a four-year-old when you do that," Art reprimanded him. "It's policy, so suck it up." Art shook his head. "I don't get you. You probably crawled through shit, lay in your own piss, and froze your ass off sleeping on rock pile in Afghanistan. Could seeing her possibly be worse?"

"It's worse," Tim replied, looking at Art defiantly.

"Well then become Director and you can change the policy," Art said waving his hand dismissively.

"Maybe I will."

"I'd like to see that."

He was surprised to discover that Art wasn't joking when he said he'd like to see that. It softened Tim up a little.

"I'm going to call Ms. Ootes myself and get you a time. You've put it off too long."

"Could you make the appointment for the end of the day so I can go out and drink after?" he asked peevishly.

"Now that's the spirit. Maybe Raylan and I will join you. We'll get you drunk and pry some war stories out of you."

"I'm trained to withstand torture."

"Then you shouldn't have any trouble with the psychologist," Art said, waving him out. "Now git, and send in Rachel."

Tim left feeling a bit uncomfortable. He understood people wanting to hear stories about Afghanistan, it was curiosity mostly. But stories led to questions, and questions led to places he wasn't prepared to go. He had made light of it and hoped that Art was just teasing.

"So, you live to fight another day," Raylan jested when Tim returned. "Didn't hurt so much, huh?"

Tim grimaced at him, "I'm not out of it yet. I've still got to talk to the vulture, but Art promised me treats afterward."

"That's not nice," Rachel said, offended for the psychologist.

"You should hear what Raylan calls her," Tim added defensively.

"Not in mixed company," Raylan warned him.

"By the way, you're up," Tim said to Rachel and gestured with his thumb over his shoulder at Art's office. "If you whine enough, maybe he'll offer you treats, too."

"I can't think of a treat that would make up for a visit with horse-face," she said under her breath as she passed them.

Raylan and Tim, wide-eyed with surprise, watched her walk away, then turned to each other and smirked.

The day passed quietly, phone calls, meetings, paperwork, lunch, but sometime late in the afternoon Tim's desk was again darkened by an ominous shadow.

"Chief," Tim said without looking up.

"Tim," Art responded and waited.

Tim leaned back in his chair and grinned up at him; Art grinned back. Tim's smile faltered.

"What?"

"I just wanted you to know that I listen when my little Deputies talk to me."

"Okay," Tim's smile moved completely off his face to make room for worry.

"I got you an appointment with the shrink. It's for late in the day like you requested," he said cheerfully, "4:30 pm."

"Uh, thanks," Tim said, not sounding particularly grateful. "When?"

"Today." Art's face bloomed into full happy. "See you at Molly's afterward." He chuckled contentedly and returned to his lair.

"Fuck." Tim looked at his watch. It was already 4:15 pm. It was probably best that he had no time to get worked up about it, though he could already feel his nerves starting to vibrate. Resigned, he packed up his desk and headed for the door, thinking ten minutes of fresh air and sunshine before his appointment might not be a bad idea.

His ten minute excursion was whittled down to six minutes when someone stopped him to ask a question on the way out, then to three minutes waiting for the elevator, then when he finally decided to take the stairs there really was no time left so he headed straight to Stephanie Ootes's office. He knocked and opened the door when he heard her call him in. He had just stepped inside when he stopped himself abruptly. The room was familiar, but the woman at the desk was not. She looked up and smiled.

Still holding the door, Tim turned his head to read the name plate, but there wasn't one. "Sorry," he said, "wrong office."

"Deputy Gutterson?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Then you have the right office. I'm replacing Ms. Ootes temporarily. My name is Miljana Cajic. Please, come in."

She stood up and walked over to shake his hand. She was petite and a little exotic for Kentucky, with dark hair and striking blue eyes. Tim would later describe her as 'lovely' to Art and Raylan. He couldn't come up with a better word.

"I read the report describing what happened. I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "It must have been hard for everyone, but especially you." She waved casually for him to take a seat and took one herself.

Tim was confused by her manner. He had lines rehearsed for Stephanie; he had nothing for her.

"Art told me you tried to ensure that the young man wouldn't be around for the arrests. But some things, I guess, are just out of our control." She smiled sadly and he relaxed. "I also get the impression that this isn't the first time you've had to end a life in the line of duty."

He decided it was a question and replied, "Not even close."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "How long have you been with the Marshals Service? You don't look very old."

She really was lovely. Lovely to look at; lovely to listen to. Just a hint of an accent.

"Deputy Gutterson?" she was looking at him, concerned.

"Sorry," he grinned sheepishly, "distracted. Uh, have you not read my file?"

"I prefer not to for the first meeting. There are always a lot of biases in these," she said pointing to his file on her desk. "I hope that doesn't bother you. Some people think I'm making light of their situation, but I don't mean it that way at all."

He was perplexed. "I was in the military before," he said simply.

She nodded, "Afghanistan? Iraq?"

"Afghanistan."

"What did you do with the military?"

"I was a sniper."

"Oh, that makes sense."

"Why does that make sense?" he asked defensively.

"I just couldn't understand why someone from the Marshals office had a rifle," she explained. "I thought you all used hand guns – except the SOG teams, I guess. They must appreciate having someone with your skills." She paused and took a deep breath. "So, this is where I'm supposed to ask you about your feelings about the shooting, but is there anything you'd rather I ask you?"

"Have you ever lost someone, I mean violently?" he challenged. It just came out, out of frustration. It was a hard question, but so was _how are you feeling about killing Frisk_? And he was tired of talking about it.

She gave him a measured look and smiled. "Changing chairs, are we? Okay, come on."

She got up and motioned for him to take her seat. When they had switched places she composed herself and said, "I'm Serbian. I was young when the wars broke out in Yugoslavia and my parents left as quickly as they could and came to the United States. I never saw any of the violence except on TV, but I lost family in Kosovo, a favorite cousin and an aunt, and I have two school friends that I've never been able to find again. Does that count?"

"How does it make _you_ feel?" Tim asked her still defensive, but maybe a little curious, too.

"I used to be angry and wish I could hurt somebody. Now, I just feel helpless. It all seems so stupid."

"I'm still at the wanting to kick somebody's teeth in stage," he said bluntly.

"That's better than the alternative, which is what everyone is concerned about with you," she said. "Everyone is worried that it was too hard a choice for you."

"If I said I wish I hadn't pulled that trigger, I'd be lying," he said looking at the floor. "I had a duty to protect Rachel."

"Your brother-in-arms."

"Yeah."

"Have you found someone whose teeth you could kick in?" she asked.

He frowned at the wall. "I've thought about it. The mother maybe, but she's kicking in her own teeth. Even then I'd probably have to keep going back farther. Go after her folks, or maybe the coal companies. It gets kind of blurry." He rubbed his hand over his face and looked up at her wearily.

She stared back at him for a few minutes then signaled for him to change seats again. He smiled, amused by the game. She sat cross-legged in her own chair, rested her elbows on her knees and plunked her head in her hands.

"I'll tell you what," she said smiling, but serious. "If it starts to bother you in any way that you can't handle, or if you're just tired of having the same conversation with yourself, come back and talk to me. I'd be happy to see you here. Tomorrow, if you'd like. You look tired. Go home."

He stood up, used to being dismissed and taking it like a soldier. He thanked her for her time, and left. Out in the hall it dawned on him how clever she was, because he was sorry to leave.

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Art and Raylan were already seated at a table when Tim entered Molly's. Raylan kicked out a chair and Tim plunked himself in it.

The waitress came over and greeted them warmly. "What'll it be today, boys? Beer or bourbon?"

"Both," Raylan and Tim answered simultaneously.

"Jinx," said Raylan, and they grinned like school boys.

"Bad day?" the waitress asked.

"Bad attitude," Art replied.

She smiled and went to get their order.

"Well," Art said squinting at Tim, "I don't see any blood."

"Ms. Ootes wasn't there," Tim said, with a heartfelt grin.

Art's face fell. "But I spoke to the lady in scheduling just before you went down."

"It was a different psychologist," Tim explained.

"Where was horse-face?" asked Raylan.

Tim smirked at the reference and shrugged.

"Is the new one nice?"

"Yeah," Tim replied, playing with the cardboard coaster on the table.

"She?" Raylan prompted.

"Uh-huh."

"Was she young?" Art demanded suspiciously.

"Yep."

"Pretty?"

"Yep."

"Tim," Raylan huffed, losing patience with the minimalist responses, "start talking or Art and I are going to beat you stupid."

Tim hooked an arm over the back of his chair, tilted his head and looked challengingly at Raylan. "I never understood why they had you teaching weapons at Glynco when your interrogation skills are your real strength."

Raylan stood up and leaned in toward Tim threateningly. Tim threw his hands up in surrender.

"Okay, okay. It was fine. We talked. She was completely different from horse-face. She was…lovely. Lovely to talk to, I mean." The last sentence came out in a rush.

"I may have to pay her a visit," said Raylan, a little too eagerly for Tim's liking.

It was on the tip of Art's tongue to say that Raylan had to shoot someone to get to see her, but his age had made him circumspect and he bit it back. Raylan might take it as permission. Moreover, Art was not yet through worrying about Tim. He had to be a raw still about the shooting, although he hid it well.

He opened his mouth to say that Raylan could talk about his Daddy issues with her, but he bit that back too. It was too soon after Arlo's arrest and the revelation that followed. Raylan pretended he didn't care, but how could he not. Discouraged, Art swallowed his quips and waited for his bourbon and wondered when his office had gotten so dysfunctional. Fortunately, the waitress arrived at that moment with their drinks.

"Take his back," Art said, pointing at Tim. "He hasn't earned it."

A few rounds and some wings later, the Marshals started into training stories. Art and Raylan described some of the new recruits they'd trained together at Glynco. At one point Raylan had Art laughing so hard he was crying.

"I'm just glad I never had to deal with someone like you," Art said tipping his beer in Tim's direction. "I bet you were a snotty-nosed little shit with the instructors. Could any of them shoot better than you?"

"I wasn't a little shit," Tim said defensively. "Besides, I'm only better with a rifle."

"So what's the longest shot you ever took in Afghanistan?" asked Raylan.

Tim drew patterns in the water beads on his beer glass. "Most of the time we were engaging the enemy at over five hundred yards," he answered mechanically. "They liked to stay out of range of the standard infantry rifles. That's why they call it the snipers' war. I made some over a thousand, and a couple over eighteen hundred."

"That's over a mile," Art said in amazement.

Tim shrugged it off. "We had the right equipment. All the record breaking shots are from Afghanistan. It's the altitude. You're already four to six thousand feet above sea level, and higher when you're in the mountains. A bullet travels farther in the thinner air," he explained, steering the conversation into the technical aspects of shooting, keeping it at a safe distance.

"What a fascinating lesson in warfare and ballistics, Tim," said Raylan.

"And a wonderful display of your escape and evasion skills," Art added.

"What?" said Tim, pretending not to understand.

"We were hoping maybe you'd tell us about your longest shot," Raylan explained. "You know, a personal anecdote about your time in a war zone."

Tim went from relaxed and alcohol-hazy to sober and guarded in a flash and looked at the two of them warily. "What is this, an intervention or something?" he asked, glaring from Art to Raylan.

"Only if Rachel were here," Raylan replied with a smile, trying to calm Tim down. "We're just curious."

"Would it kill you to tell us a story?" Art reasoned. "Look at poor Raylan, he drags his personal history into the office every day. Hell, I'm considering booking us all into group therapy just to deal with his shit."

"Why, thank you Art for being so sensitive," Raylan responded and shook his head at him.

"I run a caring office."

"One story," Raylan cajoled, turning the attention back to Tim. "And if you want we'll turn our backs and not look at you."

Tim sighed and looked down at his hands, thinking back, but every interesting story brought to mind a face he wouldn't see anymore, or a scene he didn't feel comfortable describing in a bar in Lexington, Kentucky. The rest of it was boring, jokes that were only funny at the time to tired soldiers, or the grind of waiting, sleeping, sitting in the back of a truck, or scrambling over rocks.

"Fine," he relented, not sounding very enthusiastic. "I'll tell you about my most famous shot."

"Your most _famous_ shot?" Raylan responded sarcastically.

"Uh-huh. _Fa-mous_." He smiled. "We were doing a recon sweep along a route the supply convoys used. Every fucking road in Afghanistan narrows into prime ambush territory at some point. So my spotter, Pete, and I…uh," Tim faltered. A flash of sorrow creased his forehead as he thought about Pete. He collected himself and continued, "We were assigned one of those ambush points and we spent two hours watching it, looking over every possible sniper hideout on the hills on both sides. We didn't see any movement. Nothing. So I picked a position I liked and we moved forward to set up."

"There was an easy way into this position, up over the ridge, but you don't ever, never, ever walk the ridge line. You're dead outlined against the sky like that. So we worked our way, all careful and quiet, across the hill face to an outcropping where we could squeeze between two rocks to get to the spot. I took point and as I cleared the rocks, fuck if there wasn't a Taliban sniper already set up there. He was so well hidden we never saw him. It was a good position. That's why we were going for it."

He stopped and took a drink.

"What did you do?" Art asked.

"I pulled my sidearm and shot him, point blank. It freaked us out. The whole time I'm there, I'm only seeing these guys through a scope. It was surreal. And of course, it became the running joke. _What was Gutterson's longest confirmed shot? Half a yard_. I never heard the end of it," he grinned, embarrassed.

Art and Raylan grinned with him. They could appreciate a good combat ribbing. It was the basis of their relationship.

"I don't get it. If it was such a good position, why didn't he see you?" Raylan asked after thinking about the story for a minute.

"We came around at a bad angle for him, from behind, halfway up the hill. He was looking for activity on the road, and we were quiet. That's why we always travel in pairs, a shooter and a spotter. You need someone watching your back while you've got your eyes glued to your scope."

Raylan's phone rang. He checked the display and frowned then excused himself and got up to walk outside and answer it.

"Want to bet that's Harlan calling?" said Tim.

"Might be Miami wanting him back," Art suggested wistfully. "Thanks for the story, by the way. Were we a good audience?"

"There aren't many folk who'd find shooting someone at point blank range funny," Tim commented.

"Good point," Art conceded. "I think you're safe with Raylan, though."

"And you?" Tim asked, looking pointedly at his boss.

"I've been in the business long enough not to be too judgmental in situations involving loaded guns," Art responded. "And I've never been in a war zone."

He pulled out his wallet, left some money on the table and stood up. "I should head. You got a way home?"

"I'm walking," Tim answered.

"All right then. I'll see you Monday." He patted Tim's shoulder on the way past.

Raylan walked back in a few minutes later and sat down, a troubled look on his face, twirling his empty glass of beer in the pools of water on the table.

"You want another one?" Tim offered.

"Why not," Raylan replied and signaled the waitress.

"Trouble?" Tim asked nodding at Raylan's phone still in his hand.

"Somebody knocked over Audrey's," Raylan explained. "That was Ava." He looked at Tim, his eyebrows going up and his eyes widening. "She sounded some pissed."

"Audrey's?"

"It's a bar," Raylan explained. "Ava runs it. But the bar's just a front for prostitution and, I suspect, drug dealing. Part of Boyd's new empire."

"Why'd she call you?"

"She recognized one of the gunmen," he said. "Someone we both know. She's hoping I'll run him down for her."

"They're treating you like private security," Tim grumbled. "Are they trying to get you in trouble again? Not that it wasn't fun dealing with the Feds."

Raylan didn't answer, but sat playing with his empty glass. The waitress dropped off another round and Tim and Raylan sat in silence, sipping their drinks, lost in their own thoughts.

Tim eventually broke the silence. "You ever think of transferring out?" he asked Raylan.

"At regular ten-minute intervals," Raylan replied.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

On Monday Raylan knocked at Art's door after the morning meeting. Art was working at his computer and glanced up.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, turning back to his typing.

"I'm heading down to Harlan," Raylan replied.

"Why?"

"I'm looking for someone."

"Who?"

"I should have just left without saying anything," Raylan responded impatiently.

"So why didn't you?" Art asked.

"Beats me. Maybe I'm procrastinating."

Art finally stopped typing and gave Raylan his full attention. "So, is this Marshal business or personal?"

Raylan walked in and took a seat. "That was Ava that called at the bar Friday night."

"Uh-oh," Art responded. A call from Ava was never a good thing, not even before she hooked up with Boyd. Art suspected that Raylan somehow felt responsible for pushing Ava into Boyd's arms and consequently into the criminal world she was currently embracing. Either that, or, heaven forbid, he still had feelings for her. No matter which, it spelled trouble for Raylan and trouble for Art.

He really didn't want to know, but he sighed loudly and asked, "So, what did Ava want?"

"The place she runs, Audrey's, got robbed last week. She identified one of them, a guy named Harold Lair. He used to work for the Bennetts and she thinks Dickie might be behind it – pay back. It certainly sounds like the kind of dumb move Dickie would pull," Raylan explained wearily, tired of the maze. "Lair is out on parole, probably crossed paths with Dickie recently up at the penn. Obviously if Lair's into armed robbery, that's a violation of terms. I'm looking for him."

Art shrugged. "Okay. Anything I can do?"

Raylan shook his head. "I spent most of yesterday asking around. Talked to Ava, even visited Limehouse. Nobody's going to protect Lair if he's working for Dickie. Nobody's backing the Bennett's interests anymore with Mags and Doyle out of the picture. Anyway, Harold's not too bright. I'll find him. I'd like to hear what he has to say about Ava's theory."

"Raylan, yesterday was Sunday. You're supposed to be relaxing, and you know I can't approve overtime for this."

Raylan nodded, "I know. I didn't have anything better to do."

"And you'd be happy to add some extras onto Dickie's charges," Art said. He looked at Raylan, searching for other motives.

"I won't deny I'd be happy to see him rot inside for a long time."

Raylan played with his hat. He still hadn't made a move to leave the office.

"Why don't you take a holiday?" Art prompted. "Go sit on a beach and drink some margaritas. Forget about the mess in Harlan for a week or two. I'll put someone else on Lair."

"I don't like tequila."

"Drink rum."

"I don't like rum, either."

"Fine, pack a bottle of bourbon," suggested Art, exasperated.

"I'll be back later," Raylan said, finally getting up and walking out.

* * *

Tim was multitasking, typing on his keyboard, dotting the i's and crossing the t's in a report he was late filing, and talking into his phone tucked against his shoulder, pulling information from his buddy at the FBI for a case Rachel was working. He dropped the phone back in the cradle having jotted down a name and address on a piece of paper and was reaching over the barrier waving it at her when Art beckoned for him.

"Tim," he called coming out of his office. "I just got a call from the locals down in London. They've got a shooter up on a roof and were wondering if they could borrow you."

Tim stood up, grabbed his jacket and his cap and headed for the door.

"I'll sign out a car and meet you in the parking lot. Grab my vest." Art called after him. Tim stopped and gave him a questioning look. Art just waved at him to hurry up.

"Rachel, are you going anywhere this afternoon?" he asked.

"I'm buried in reports and waiting on phone calls," she said gesturing to the stack of papers on her desk.

"Well then, lucky you. You're in charge. I'm going with Tim," he said giving her a meaningful look. He didn't want Tim going alone if he possibly had to shoot someone today.

She smiled and nodded her understanding.

Down in the parking lot, Art unlocked the trunk for Tim to stow his rifle and their vests then handed him the keys.

"You drive. I have to make some phone calls," he said, and settled into the passenger seat.

Tim pretended not to understand why Art was coming with him. He kept his mouth shut and drove while Art made his calls. After almost an hour of listening to the bureau chief smooth feathers, explain requisition orders, justify budget overages and overtime costs, and discuss employee allocation, Tim decided to consider a career change before his knees got bad.

He thought maybe he should go back to school part-time and work on a degree or a diploma. Maybe become a psychologist. Maybe become the psychologists' psychologist and fuck with them all. He thought about that for a moment and decided to qualify it – he'd fuck with them all _except_ the new girl. It brought back a memory of a Pashtun saying he heard in Afghanistan, "If you take your revenge in a hundred years, you are rushing things."ᶧ He liked the idea of the cold patience and the certainty of justice inherent in their ancient culture, a culture with a collective memory of thousands of years. But Tim didn't think he had it in him to wait that long. After all, he was born in Kentucky not Paktia.

As they drove through the National Forest, he wondered what the people of Paktia would think of all the green in Kentucky. They would probably think they'd died and gone to heaven, just fewer virgins.

Traffic was light and they made good time, pulling up an hour and a half later behind a collection of police cruisers marking the scene. The officer in charge walked over to meet them and introduced himself. He pointed up to the roof of a food market where the shooter was holed up. He had barricaded the door to the roof and was taking occasional shots at the bank across the street. No one had been hurt so far. They figured out his name and spoke to his wife and found a phone number for his cell. The officer had been talking to him off and on for an hour but couldn't convince him to give himself up.

"I don't want to see this end badly," the officer told them. "He's just a local guy, fed up with not being able to find work, behind on his bills. It's just another sad story."

"You want me just to scare him down?" Tim suggested.

"If you can do that, I'd be happy. I don't think he really wants to shoot anybody, but this has been going on long enough. And if he starts aiming any better we may need you to do more than scare him. It's only going to take one bullet to turn this from a comedy to a tragedy."

Tim did a quick check of the area and decided on a good spot to position himself while Art got more details about the shooter and jotted down the officer's cell phone number. Tim interrupted them and pointed out an apartment building a couple of blocks over that was a floor taller than the two-story market with a low wall around the roof.

"Can you get me up there?" he asked the officer, pointing to the building.

"No problem. We'll call the super. You can head on over."

They drove the car and parked it out of sight on the opposite side of the apartment building. Tim popped the trunk, slipped into his vest and lifted out the rifle case. He was jogging around the corner when Art yelled to him.

"Wait up."

Tim stopped abruptly. He hadn't expected Art to come up with him. He waited patiently while Art put on his vest and closed the trunk. The two walked to the apartment building entrance where the superintendent met them and showed them to the roof. Tim ducked out the door and ran to the front corner to set up his rifle while Art chatted inside with the super for a bit.

When Tim was ready, Art joined him, settling awkwardly on the ground. He pulled out his phone and called the officer in charge.

"We're set up. Why don't you go ahead and tell him what's going on. Let him know what we're capable of. Hopefully that'll be that. If it doesn't work, maybe we'll have Tim give him a demonstration."

They waited. Tim settled into position, turned his baseball cap around and looked into the scope. It would be an easy shot, just over a hundred yards and very little wind. He watched the shooter talking into his phone.

"He's not biting," he said to Art.

A minute later Art's phone rang and Tim gave him a wry look.

"Yeah, we can see that," Art said on his end. "A demonstration then? Okay, hold on a sec."

He turned to Tim, "He doesn't believe you can shoot him from here. What do you want to do?"

"He's got a cup of coffee," Tim said, amused by the situation. "Have him put it on the ground against the wall and tell him to move back a bit."

"Is it safe?" Art asked.

"The wall will eat the bullet."

"Okay." Art spoke the instructions to the officer and hung up again. "We're probably breaking a few dozen regulations."

"Beats shooting the guy," Tim replied.

Tim looked through his scope again and watched as the man carefully set his cup by the wall, picked up his rifle and backed up a bit.

"This guy's a winner," he remarked, shaking his head. He made his adjustments, lined up the shot, and steadied his breathing, letting his finger rest on the trigger.

Art watched him closely, curious. It always amazed him how still Tim was before he pulled the trigger. He was so intent studying Tim's breathing that when he squeezed and the shot fired, Art jumped. So did the shooter. The bullet exploded the coffee cup before he even heard the crack from Tim's rifle. He dropped his own weapon like a hot potato, threw his hands in the air and ran to the door of the roof.

"I give up! I surrender! Don't shoot!" he yelled as he frantically started removing the barricade to the let the police onto the roof.

Tim handed the scope to Art so he could watch the scene while he broke down his rifle. The shooter practically threw himself at the police when they opened the door. They put him in handcuffs and collected his weapon. It was all rather funny and anticlimactic. Art chuckled in appreciation at the antics. This was a part of the job he could get some satisfaction from since the outcome was happy enough.

"Nice shot."

"Thanks," Tim replied. "Funny, I suddenly have a craving for a coffee. Can we stop on the way back and grab a snack?"

"Didn't you get lunch?"

"Yeah, but that was a few hours ago. I'm starving," Tim complained.

He stood and offered Art a hand up.

"We'll probably get a letter from his lawyer demanding we pay for his dry cleaning," Art grunted as Tim helped him to his feet. "There was coffee all over him."

The two Marshals left the building and headed to the car, when they turned the corner they both stopped dead in their tracks.

"Where's the car?" asked Tim.

"Shit," Art swore. "Did somebody steal it? I thought you couldn't steal it with all the alarms and stuff."

"I didn't lock it," Tim confessed.

"What? Why not?"

"I didn't know you were coming up with me," Tim replied. "Shit." He covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide.

"What?"

"I left the keys in the ignition."

"What!"

"Like I said, I didn't know you were coming up with me and then I started thinking about the shot and the wind…" Tim trailed off, feeling pretty stupid, then indignant. "Who would steal a Marshal's car? They've got to know it's got a tracker in it."

Art squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his head. "Dammit. You're as bad as my daughters."

"Do you swear at them, too?"

"Shut up, I'm mad," Art snapped. "I'm calling Rachel." He stomped off down the sidewalk taking out his frustration on the phone with each jab of his finger.

Tim watched him storm off then plunked himself down on the curb and waited.

Art wandered back a few minutes later. He said calmly, "I talked to Rachel. She said Raylan is on his way back up from Harlan. She's going to call him and get him to swing by and pick us up. She's putting the call in about the car, too. They'll trace it and send out someone local when it turns up."

He put his hands on his hips and looked down at Tim. He was still sitting on the curb, the rifle case across his lap, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He hadn't even looked up yet. Art sighed, "There's a diner around the corner. Do you still want a coffee?"

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Tim and Art were finishing a second cup of coffee and discussing bullet trajectories when Raylan strolled into the diner an hour later. Tim collected up his napkin diagrams and slid over in the booth to make room for him.

"Did you know," Art asked Raylan when he was seated, "that you have to consider the earth's rotation if you make a long enough shot?"

"I did not," Raylan replied, looking over at the napkins. "Physics class?"

Raylan was grateful when the waitress came by and interrupted the lesson, bringing a clean cup and fresh coffee for the table. He asked Art if he could order something.

"What the hell. Go ahead. The day's shot anyway."

Raylan ordered a sandwich and Tim asked for pie.

"You have to eat as fast as Tim did, though" Art added. "You should have seen it. That poor sandwich didn't stand a chance."

"Worried someone would steal it?" Raylan asked Tim, grinning.

"Ha ha," Tim replied, twisting on the bench to face him. "At least I still have my hat, my gun and my badge." He pointed to each item in turn.

Raylan winced, "Now, that's not fair. The guy that took my car had a gun."

"Maybe the one that took ours did, too."

"Pointed at me," said Raylan.

"Details," Tim added peevishly, dismissing Raylan's comment with a wave of his hand.

"How'd it go here?" Raylan asked turning to Art. "Rachel explained a little about what was going on when she called."

"Tim killed a coffee," said Art.

"Didn't know they were in season."

"My first one," Tim said proudly.

"I'd mount it on a wall in the office, but there's nothing left of it," Art opined.

The waitress returned with the food and a refill. Art amused Raylan with the afternoon's events while he and Tim ate then they settled the bill and headed out to the car. Art's phone rang when they got out front.

"Hey, they tracked down our car," he said after ending the call. "It's just out of town."

Art pulled out a map and directed Raylan to the road where the car was found. It didn't take them long to spot the State Trooper parked on the shoulder next to a farmer's field. Raylan pulled over and they all got out. Art was hoping they'd be able to drive the car back, but it was immediately clear that wasn't going to happen. The car had rolled over into a ditch. Even if they could have hoisted it out and set it on its wheels, the front axle was bent. It would have to be carted back to Lexington on a flat bed.

The State Trooper was good-natured, amused and sympathetic. He shook hands all around and explained the situation.

"I've already called a tow truck. They'll take it to a garage in London. You can arrange for someone to get it back to Lexington from there," he said helpfully. "I reckon it was kids out for a joyride. It's pretty typical. It doesn't look like anyone was hurt, though the car's obviously going to need repairs. We found the keys still in the ignition."

They all stared at the car a moment.

"I don't mind staying till the truck comes," the Trooper offered kindly. "I know you folks have a bit of a drive back."

Art followed him over for a closer look, but Tim hung back, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders drooping. Raylan stayed with him. They could hear the Trooper describing what he thought had happened then Art pulled out his phone to arrange for a tow truck from Lexington.

"This is going to dog me all the way to my grave," Tim lamented, looking woefully at the car.

"No need to be glum," Raylan offered. "By the look on Art's face, I'd wager it'll be a short trip."

Raylan thought it was a clear indication of Tim's state of mind when he didn't have a snarky reply for him. He was beating himself up about it. Art couldn't do much more damage.

Tim, worried, watched Art talking on the phone and pacing the side of the road, a stern expression on his face, his free hand firmly planted on his hip.

"How long do you think it'd take me to walk back, if I started before he hung up?" he asked Raylan.

"Depends," Raylan replied. "If I drive, you'd probably make it to Lexington sometime late tomorrow. If Art drives, you won't make it far up the road before he finds you and runs you over."

"I could go cross country."

"I'll distract him. Make a run for it," Raylan suggested, trying to be helpful.

Tim turned his head and looked longingly at the open field and the forest beyond.

"Too late," said Raylan, nodding in Art's direction.

He had finished the call and was walking back. Art stopped, facing them, and let out an enormous sigh. Tim waited patiently for the dressing down.

"Well kids, who wants to go for ice cream?" asked Art.

Neither of them responded.

"The Trooper says there's a great ice cream place on the way to the highway," he explained as he walked past them and got into the passenger seat of Raylan's car.

Tim and Raylan exchanged a look.

"Should I be worried?" Tim asked.

Raylan just raised his eyebrows and headed to the driver's side.

* * *

The ice cream was good, and Art seemed rather cheerful considering the day's events. He confessed around mouthfuls of waffle cone that the whole thing seemed rather amusing now.

"It'll make a great story at the next bureau chief's meeting – this whole afternoon's been entertaining," he said, motioning expansively with his arms.

"How did it go down in Harlan?" he asked Raylan when they were in the car finally heading back to Lexington. He was riding shotgun again and Tim was sprawled in the backseat, already asleep. "Did you find what's-his-name?"

"Harold Lair," Raylan supplied, drawing out his name like it was an entire story by itself. "No. He seems to have gone to ground. Rather intelligent of him. I guess he learned a thing or two inside. I didn't think he had it in him, but people do surprise you."

Art nodded in agreement and waited for Raylan to continue.

"I spoke with Limehouse again. He's almost as keen as Boyd to see that no Bennetts regain a purchase in Harlan. Though you're on a slippery slope with him – he's Switzerland, banker to the victors, whoever they may be at the time," Raylan mused. "He did say that he heard that the two fellows running with Lair are not from Harlan. He wasn't convinced about Ava's theory. I'm not either. The more I think about it, the more I don't get why they'd bother helping Dickie. What's in it for them?"

"I don't know. I'm inclined to agree with Ava's thinking," Art countered. "Why would they risk pissing off Boyd Crowder? And have you forgotten the Bennett money's still missing? You'd have to believe Dickie might offer them a cut. That's good incentive."

Art had a point. As far as Harold Lair was concerned the Bennett fortune was still up for grabs, and it was possible that Dickie had made promises.

They were approaching the turn off into Lexington when Art's phone rang again. Raylan smirked as he caught Tim waking with a violent start in the rear-view mirror. They exchanged a look and Tim flipped him the finger. Raylan laughed.

"What are you still doing in the office?" Art said into the phone. "I don't care. It's almost eight o'clock. Go home."

Art listened, then pulled out a note pad and pen and wrote something down.

"Rachel, you know the answering service is there just for this kind of thing," he said. "Now go home."

He ended the call. "That girl," he said shaking his head. "You two are going to end up working for her."

"Are you trying to tell us something, Chief?" Tim asked, leaning over from the back. "Retiring soon?"

"Not until I come up with some appropriately horrible job for you as punishment for today," Art replied.

"Just don't assign me to Harlan," Tim begged leaning back again.

"I was going to suggest prisoner transport for a year, but if you want Harlan…" Art shrugged then turned to Raylan. "It's your lucky day. Rachel says they took a message a few minutes ago. You got an anonymous tip."

"No shit," Raylan replied. "Is it about my personal life, or are we stopping at the track?"

"Apparently Harold Lair is hiding out in Lexington," said Art. "And someone either likes you enough, or hates him enough, to want to pass that information on to you. They left the address of the apartment."

Raylan pondered the information, his face screwed up in disbelief. "I suppose I should be grateful," he eventually decided.

"It's on the way," Art said, "and I've already missed dinner. Do you want to swing by? He can ride in the back with Tim if we find him."

"Great," said Tim, "I'm so looking forward to meeting him."

It was dark when they pulled up to the curb across the street and down a bit from the address. It was one of a strip of shops with apartments over top. Conveniently, Lair was standing out front, looking up and down the street as if he were waiting for someone, his hands in his pockets, hiding under a baseball cap.

"That's him," said Raylan.

The three Marshals sat in the car watching him.

"Well," said Tim finally, "what do you want to do?"

Raylan adjusted his hat and opened his door. "Let's go have a chat," he said calmly.

Tim hopped out of the back. Art sat a moment longer, wondering if he was needed. Probably not, but he decided to get out anyway and stretch his legs.

Raylan sauntered across the street while Tim continued casually on the far side. The hat, however, was a dead giveaway. As soon as Lair turned to look their way it was obvious that he recognized Raylan. He took off down the street at a run.

Raylan and Tim chased after him. Art watched them go then calmly retrieved the spare keys from the gas hatch, climbed into the car, started it up and followed them.

They chased Lair down the block, gaining on him. When he turned the next corner he didn't hesitate or slow down, he ran straight across the street and into a bar.

"Taking the back," Tim yelled and kept running as Raylan yanked open the door and followed Lair inside.

Tim turned and ran up the narrow walkway between the bar and the next building and came out into the service alley behind. He was still running full out when he took the corner and saw a baseball bat swinging at his head. Instinctively he threw his left arm up to block it. It connected solidly and Tim yelled out in surprise and pain as he heard the bone in his forearm snap. He grabbed his arm and pulled it to his body protectively, doubling over. He looked up to see the bat being raised again and threw his right shoulder and all his weight into the man holding it, pushing him in a football tackle into the wall and knocking the wind out of him. Before his assailant could catch his breath, Tim slammed him with a right hook and he dropped to the ground.

As his fist connected he felt a searing pain in his exposed side and turning his head saw a second man pull back with a knife and start to come at him again. Tim tried to react but his body wouldn't cooperate. The man lunged again stabbing him a second time before standing back and watching as Tim sank to his knees then crumpled to the pavement.

The first assailant staggered to his feet and kicked at Tim in frustration. They stood over him, watching him struggle to get up.

"That's not him," said the first.

"Shit. Well shit, who is he?" the second asked.

"I don't know. Can I take his gun?"

"No, Jesus, it's probably registered and shit. Let's just get the fuck out of here." He dropped the knife into a trash bin and they ran down the alley to the street.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Raylan stopped inside the door and looked around. It was the kind of bar that the college kids frequented, and it was crowded for a Monday night. Lair was so out of place in this setting that Raylan could easily make him out cutting a swath through the patrons, heading for the back wall. He was far enough ahead that it would have been up to Tim in the alley to cut him off if the back door of the bar hadn't been locked. Raylan smirked and sauntered up behind him as he flailed uselessly at the handle, yelling at the door to open. He finally gave up and spun around. Raylan was only a foot behind him. He dangled the handcuffs in Lair's face and raised an eyebrow.

"I think it's against fire regulations to lock the secondary exit in an establishment like this," Raylan shouted over the music. "I'd report it, but I'm just so amused."

He grinned and made a turn-around motion with his finger and his prisoner meekly obliged. He searched him and found a handgun. He made a tut-tut sound then cuffed him and led him back through the curious crowd. They ran into Art who was waiting near the entrance.

"Can't stay out of bars, can you?" Art joked. He looked down at Lair and shook his head. "I think there are prettier girls here you could have picked up."

"I enjoy the chase, Art, and he was the only one running," Raylan said.

They made their way out to the street and helped their prisoner into the backseat of Raylan's car.

"Where's Tim?" Art asked looking around.

"Ran to cover the back."

"Should we go get him?" Art suggested, intending the 'we' as a 'you, Raylan'.

"He'll figure it out," Raylan said casually, and the two Marshals leaned against the car, waiting.

An LPD cruiser pulled up just as they got comfortable and Art sauntered over to say hi and came back chatting with the officer.

"Someone called in a fight," the officer said.

"Probably the bartender," Raylan responded. "He looked a little jittery."

Art asked the officer to take Lair to the station in his cruiser. As they transferred him to the other car, Art turned to Raylan, "Go get Tim, will you? It'd be nice to head home sometime before dawn."

Raylan pushed off the car and jogged over between the buildings. When he approached the back alley he started calling out to Tim. Nothing. He called out again as he turned the corner. The light wasn't great, but he could make out a figure curled up on the pavement.

"Shit. Art, call an ambulance!" Raylan yelled over his shoulder.

Art jumped at the command. He hated those words. He pointed at the officer as he walked toward the building.

"I got it," the officer said waving him away. He reached in and grabbed his radio, calling into dispatch for EMS and backup.

Raylan pulled his sidearm and did a quick sweep of the alley. Satisfied they were alone he holstered it and knelt down beside Tim. He reached to find a pulse just as Tim opened his eyes and drew his legs up a little tighter. Moving was clearly a bad idea.

"Fuck," he moaned breathing in gasps and squeezing his eyes shut again.

"Tim," Raylan said anxiously. "What happened, buddy?"

Raylan checked him over as best he could in the poor light. He pulled Tim's hand away from his side, it was slick with blood.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Tim kept repeating.

"It's alright, buddy," Raylan said, keeping his voice calm and even. "Help is on the way."

Tim started shaking. Raylan took off his jacket and covered him, offering a little warmth.

"Fuck, fuck…," Tim's voice faltered.

"Hey Tim, keep swearing. Look at me. The swearing is nice – kind of calming," Raylan joked trying to hold Tim's focus.

Art appeared behind Raylan. "What happened?" he asked, looking anxiously at Tim.

Raylan just shrugged and glanced up at Art. "I found him like this. He's bleeding."

"Fuck," Tim said feebly, his eyes losing focus.

"Hey, look at me. Tim," Raylan cajoled. "How the hell did someone get the jump on you? Must've been ten or twenty of them, huh?" He kept nattering while he removed Tim's sidearm and back up and passed them up to Art.

"I'm going to intercept the ambulance," Art said and headed down the alley to the main street.

Raylan could hear the sirens now. "Hear that? That's drugs and a nice soft bed coming your way. Not to mention at least a month off then some light duty – maybe a trip or two downstairs to see that lovely shrink, nice way to pass the time."

Tim's eyes drooped then slid all the way shut. Raylan reached for Tim's shoulder and squeezed it.

"Tim, buddy, look at me," he repeated. "Stay awake, now."

"Fuck," Tim groaned faintly.

Raylan would have laughed if he weren't so worried.

The ambulance pulled into the alley and the paramedics waved Raylan off and took over. Raylan went to stand with Art and the two of them watched in silence as the attendants worked on Tim, then loaded him into the ambulance and drove away.

They walked back over to the spot where Tim had been laying and Raylan squatted down to pick up his jacket. There was a blood stain on the bottom of it and a larger matching blood stain on the pavement.

"Shit," Art said for both of them. His face was drawn down with concern. "What the hell happened?"

"I have no idea," Raylan replied and gave Art a perplexed look. "Maybe he interrupted something."

Art continued to stare at the blood on the pavement. "Or maybe they were waiting for him," he eventually said.

"No one knew Tim was going to be back here," Raylan countered.

"You're right," Art agreed. "But I've been in this business too long to think this a coincidence." He looked hard at Raylan. "Have you considered they might have been waiting for you?"

Raylan looked doubtful.

"It wouldn't be the first time someone was aiming for you and missed. And seriously, an anonymous tip?" Art shook his head. "We should have been more careful."

Raylan considered the possibility. If Lair was working for Dickie, that was certainly motive. Dickie would never turn down an opportunity to get even with him. And Lair hadn't hesitated when he ran into that bar. He wasn't from Lexington, probably didn't know the area well, and it wasn't even Lair's kind of bar, yet he had headed straight for the back door like he was familiar with the place. Moreover, anyone who knew Raylan would assume he would be working alone, it was a good assumption. He would have followed Lair straight into that alley if the door hadn't been locked. But the door was locked and it was Tim that had ended up in the alley.

He looked over at Art who had started wandering back to the corner between the buildings, talking on his phone. Two LPD officers approached, asking what they could do. Art directed them to cordon off the alley, get some lights and start searching for a weapon.

"Gun?" one asked.

"We're not sure," replied Raylan, joining them. They nodded and turned away.

"I called Rachel," said Art. "When she gets here I'm going to the hospital." He passed a hand over his face. "You and she can organize things here, get LPD canvassing, see if there are any witnesses." He looked around at the buildings and sighed. "Shit. We'll question Lair after he's had time to sweat it out in lock up. On second thought, why don't you go have a chat with him right now, hint that his plan went south and he's up for accessory..." Art rolled his hand like he meant to add more but couldn't find the words. He was upset, worrying about Tim's current state of mind and how it would affect his chances.

Raylan let Art ramble, only half listening. He was still trying to get his head around what had happened and was already planning a trip down to McCreary to visit Dickie Bennett.

The LPD had roped off the area and were looking under bins and around corners with flashlights. Art and Raylan left them to it and walked back to the front of the building.

Raylan went straight over to the squad car where they'd left Lair, opened the door and sat inside next to him. He was over the shock of what happened and was working up a solid anger. There was some blood on his hand so he leaned over and roughly rubbed it off on Lair's shirt.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Lair yelped and pushed himself up against the door of the car, as far from Raylan as he could get.

"I'm guessing that was supposed to be mine," Raylan said in a dangerously quiet voice, pointing at the blood smear. He watched Lair's face closely. "That door wasn't supposed to be locked, was it? It was supposed to be me meeting your friends in the alley tonight. You're probably pretty interested right now whose blood that is, and just how much shit you're in." Raylan's voice was getting louder and louder.

He paused letting the information sink in. Lair was staring at the blood on his shirt. He slowly shifted his eyes to look at Raylan. It didn't take someone with training to read the guilt and fear in them.

"That blood belongs to _Deputy_ Gutterson. That's accessory to murder one. Hard time. That's the shit you're in. So I reckon you'd better think about what you're going to say to me when we talk next. It'd better be something I want to hear."

Raylan got out of the car before he could do anything he'd regret. He slammed the door and stood for a moment clearing his head then walked over to join Art.

* * *

Art nodded off in the waiting room, almost spilling his coffee. He gingerly set it on the table beside him and stood up to walk around a bit. He had found a nurse when he first arrived who explained that Tim was heading into OR, and that it looked to them like stab wounds. He added that he also had a broken arm and a cracked rib. Art called Raylan and relayed the information, then called home and told his wife he'd be late. When he explained why, she was upset. She liked the kids at the bureau, and she worried about Art. He took these things hard.

When the surgeon finally came over later to talk to Art, he'd fallen asleep again.

"Chief Deputy Art Mullen," he said loudly.

Art jerked awake and stood up a bit too fast.

"Sit down before you fall down," the surgeon ordered.

Art obeyed and rubbed his face. Dr. Phil Burkhart was turning into something like a friend. He'd seen Art often enough over the years and he would shed his professional airs and talk squarely when it was just the two of them. It was the perfect bed-side manner for a Chief Deputy US Marshal.

"Is that your boy in there?" he asked. When Art nodded an affirmative he smiled in sympathy. "I guess it's hard seeing them hurt."

"You sort of think that once the kids leave home you'll stop having to deal with this stuff, but you don't." Art said tiredly. "Maybe it's an age thing. Do you think I'll ever get used to it?"

"I haven't," the doctor replied shaking his head.

Art searched Phil's face for clues about Tim's condition. "I guess if thing's weren't good you'd have said so by now," he reasoned with optimism.

Phil smiled and Art relaxed. "He's still breathing. Your boy's lucky. It could easily have killed him if whoever did this knew anything about anatomy. But fortunately, he didn't and he missed anything that would've made it fatal or hard to repair. There was a lot of bleeding though, and I'm not happy with his blood pressure. We're going to keep him in ICU overnight at least because, hell, shit happens."

Art digested the news and nodded.

"I'll take being shot any day over a knifing," Phil continued. "I hate stab wounds – they're just messy. His arm set fine. Nasty bruise though. Somebody hit him with something?"

Art chewed on that information for a minute before answering. He shook his head and shrugged and said, "We found him lying in an alley. I'm kind of anxious to have a chat with him. I'm hoping he can tell us what happened."

"I'll let you know when that's possible." The surgeon stood and stretched. "I'd like to join you for that chat. I've got a few questions of my own for him. He's got some interesting scars," he added as he turned to leave.

Art chewed on that, too. He stood up again, a little more slowly this time, and headed out the front door for some air. He started dialing Rachel's number just as she and Raylan rounded the corner of the building with a tray of fresh coffees.

"He's going to be fine," he answered before Rachel could ask.

Art repeated the surgeon's report as they wandered back to the waiting room and sat down to talk. Rachel was more quiet than usual, her eyes continuously darting over to the glass partition into the ICU, waiting for a glimpse of Tim. Raylan filled Art in on the details of their findings so far.

"We found a knife and a bat in the dumpster. No surprise there," he said. "I showed Lair's photo to the bartender. He's pretty sure he remembers him coming in a couple of times this week. Said he had a drink at the back, once alone, once with a couple of other guys. He agreed that they weren't the usual clientele. I told LPD we'd collect Lair sometime tomorrow for questioning." He paused and looked at Art, raising his eyebrows. "I think you're right, Art, about them waiting for me. Lair was in a panic when I told him about Tim – way more afraid than he needed to be if he wasn't involved. I'm going to head down and see Dickie tomorrow morning, early, before he has a chance to get the news."

Art nodded, "I'll go with you."

"Worried I'll lose it and do something you'll regret?" Raylan asked.

"No, I'm not worried about you. You've shown admirable restraint with Dickie in the past, and with more reason to beat the living shit out of him," Art replied. "I just want to see his reaction when he sees you. And then if you don't get violent, maybe I will."

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

Art slept badly, got up early and went to the hospital to see Tim before heading into the office. He was pleased to find him out of ICU and in a room. He was not pleased to find Rachel curled up asleep in a chair in that room. He didn't want to wake her, so he moved as quietly as he could over to Tim's bed and had a look. He was as pale as a hangover, except for the dark circles under his eyes. If you ignored the stubble, he looked like a teenager.

He heard movement and turned to see Rachel stretching. She looked at him blearily and smiled. He smiled back. He never could stay mad at her.

"Were you here all night?" he demanded, trying to sound angry.

Her look was a combination of confidence and belligerence. It said 'of course' and 'do you have a problem with that?' at the same time. But all that was audible was a light acknowledgement.

"Mm hmm," she said.

"You really think he needs a babysitter?"

"I think you all need a babysitter," she replied cheekily.

"Do I need to worry about this?" he asked looking from him to her.

"Please," she huffed and rolled her eyes. "Tim's like a little brother. He's Nick, just ever so slightly more grown up. And you're the one who assigned him to me when he first started. I feel responsible for him."

"So now it's my fault you chose to sleep in a chair all night?"

"I'm just saying he could use a little help right now. Besides who else is there?" she added. "Did you know he comes over and hangs out with Nick sometimes? I owe him. Nick gets a little tired of his grandma and Aunt Rachel."

"Nick and Tim?" Art said in disbelief.

"Uh-huh. They play Call of Duty together," she smiled. "Nick loves it because he gets to tell his friends he kicks US Army Ranger ass. Last week, Tim did a 'rage-quit'. Apparently he shot Nick five times with a .50 caliber sniper rifle and couldn't kill him. Tim said it was stupid. I never had so good a laugh with Nick."

"Huh," Art grunted. Raylan was right. People do surprise you. "Has he come around at all? It would be nice if we could to talk to him."

"Briefly," she replied yawning. "But he was pretty out of it. Your friend, Dr. Burkhart, was by. He seemed pleased and said Tim was doing well considering. He also said not to expect much conversation from him today. Lots of drugs." She widened her eyes expressively and grinned.

Art nodded in understanding.

"Well, I just thought I'd check in," he told her. "Raylan and I are heading down to have a chat with Dickie Bennett. See what that gets us. We want to get there early. Why don't you head home and get some sleep, come in this afternoon."

"We'll see," she said. "I might run some pictures of Lair's associates from prison over to the bartender and see if he recognizes any of them. I really didn't sleep too badly. Sometimes being small is a good thing."

* * *

Art and Raylan passed through another set of locked and barred doors before entering the visiting room at the penitentiary. As they went through each set, Art could feel himself sliding into his hardened work persona, one he didn't have much use for anymore as bureau chief. It was a side of himself he didn't like very much that he reserved for the job, a side that his wife and daughters never saw, not even when the girls brought home their boyfriends for approval, a side that was only necessary for dealing with people like Dickie Bennett.

They had preplanned the meeting. Art sat at the table, waiting. Even at his age he was an intimidating man. Raylan stayed by the door, purposely out of sight when it opened. Dickie was led in by one of the prison guards and stood in the room looking insolently at Art. He refused to sit and tried hard to put on an air of confidence and control. But the Chief Deputy had put a lot of energy into his work persona today and his dangerous will filled the room and made Dickie wither. He had walked into the lion's den.

"Dickie Bennett," Raylan spoke up, moving in from behind him. "How's the leg?"

Dickie jumped. His attention was completely bound by Art and Art's silent glare and he hadn't noticed Raylan when he came in. He spun around and stumbled, trying to keep himself as far as possible from both Marshals, a double threat.

"Whoa, hey, Raylan," he said, staring at him in surprise and alarm, both arms up warding him off. "Whoa, huh, didn't, uh, didn't see you standing there."

"You didn't see me standing here, or you didn't expect to see me standing?" asked Raylan, watching him carefully.

"Uh, hey, Raylan. Yeah, here you are," Dickie stammered, a panicked look on his face, bowing to Raylan like a vaudeville host. "Raylan, huh. Okay. I'm not sure what you're implying here."

"We've got Harold Lair in custody," Raylan stated, and got the reaction he was expecting.

Dickie stared at him and swallowed. "I am _not_ part of whatever Harold Lair is up to," he denied vehemently. "If Harold is doing something he shouldn't be doing, I have nothing whatsoever to do with whatever he's doing, at all, especially if it's anything to do with _you_ , Raylan."

"Harold and his buddies attacked a Deputy Marshal with a knife last night. They thought it was me. Can you imagine their surprise? Well, actually, I suppose you can."

Dickie's eyes shifted to Art then back to Raylan. "Who was it?" he asked nervously.

"Deputy Tim Gutterson."

Dickie's expression changed from fear to spite.

"He's the one that shot Doyle, isn't he? Am I right? He is, isn't he? Is he dead? I hope he's dead." Dickie spat on the floor. "I hope he rots in hell," he said, pointing downward for emphasis.

Raylan was grateful that Tim wasn't around to hear this. He wanted to hit Dickie, but he settled for a menacing step closer. "You'd better hope he's not dead. Because if he is, that's contract murder and you are never getting out of here."

"Contract, what? Contract murder? Whoa, Raylan, I don't know what you are talking about. Ha. I never. I had nothing to do with it," Dickie spluttered.

Raylan took another step and Dickie started to edge toward the table. Art stood up and crossed his arms on his chest.

"Harold was none too happy to find out that he's the only one who didn't know the Bennett money is all gone. Do you really think he's going to stay quiet to protect you?" Raylan threatened. "Harold Lair is singing us an interesting song. I like it so much I'm putting it on my IPod."

"I, uh…huh, I uh…I want my lawyer," Dickie stammered.

* * *

"It's never as fun as you think it'll be," Art sighed once they'd gone back out through the series of gates and were in the car. "It's like a high school reunion – disappointing."

"Well," Raylan responded, "at least now we can be pretty sure Dickie was paying Harold, or at least making promises to. If we can get Harold to snitch on him and keep his story up all the way to a court hearing it'll help us hold Dickie for longer. Shit, this whole business just makes me tired. I'm sorry Tim had to get involved in it."

Art didn't reply. He was confident that neither Raylan nor Tim was going to carry around any grudges or guilt from this, at least not for each other. The two of them were professionals. Having Raylan join the Lexington office was a mixed blessing. Art needed help sorting out the maze of intrigue in Harlan County and who better than Raylan. But lately, Art worried they'd opened a Pandora's Box and what had come out were a lot of skulking closet skeletons with Givens tags.

"I think I could get you a nice transfer if you'd like," he offered.

Raylan's face tensed up but he kept his eyes on the road and didn't respond.

"I'm sure you don't want to go back to Miami, but how about Atlanta?"

"Are you trying to tell me something, Art? Want to get rid of me finally?" Raylan asked. "Worried for the other Marshals?"

"The only Marshal I'm worried about is you," Art said defensively. He paused for a moment and wagged his head back and forth. "Well, and Tim, but I'm always a little worried about him. And then there's that new guy. He's a little strange, don't you think? I'm not sure he's cut out for law enforcement."

"Art," Raylan said impatiently interrupting his breakdown of the staff.

"No, I'm not anxious to be rid of you, this week," Art admitted.

"Well, then I'd like to stay if it's all the same to you," said Raylan. "Got some things I need to work out."

Art nodded.

"And I'd miss you," Raylan added.

"Aw."

Art decided to make a few phone calls on the drive back. He called the hospital and managed to catch Phil. They chatted a few minutes about Tim, and Art hung up satisfied with the news and passed it on to Raylan. He then rang Rachel and they exchanged information. She hadn't had any luck with the bartender and was planning a second canvas of the neighborhood. He suggested she hold off until he and Raylan had a chance to interview Harold Lair.

"So," Art said after finishing his call with Rachel, "shall we reverse rolls for Harold?"

"Sounds good," Raylan replied.

* * *

When they picked up Harold Lair, Art signed for him at the desk and kept up a running monologue back to the Marshals office.

"I stopped by the hospital on the way over. It's not looking good. He went into cardiac arrest again this morning. They're not sure they can revive him next time. Said they probably won't even try. I called his family – they're on their way. I told them to expect the worst, that there was severe trauma." Art's voice faltered and he shook his head. "Shit. I hate making those calls."

Raylan said nothing, but thought Art deserved an Oscar for his performance. Raylan settled for the silent treatment, fixing his eyes coldly on their prisoner. By the time they got to the conference room Harold Lair was a wreck. Art sat across from him, slamming the folder open angrily and Raylan stood behind, dangerously quiet. Harold was doing contortions in his chair trying to keep them both in sight.

"The charges being laid against you, Mr. Lair, are pretty serious," Art stated, jabbing a finger in his face. "If Deputy Gutterson doesn't survive his injuries you and your associates are looking at the death penalty."

"They were just supposed to rough you up," Harold said nervously looking around at Raylan.

"Bullshit," Raylan responded. "Dickie Bennett wants me dead."

"Dickie? Dickie who?" Harold asked, his confusion unconvincing.

Raylan put his hands on Harold's shoulders and leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Don't fuck with me," he threatened.

Harold sank down into his seat.

"We were in talking to Dickie this morning," Art continued sternly. "He was telling us a story about you bragging about _your_ plans to kill a US Deputy Marshal. Now, we believe that the truth of it is that Dickie Bennett hired you and your friends to do the job for him. The courts will take into consideration any cooperation on your part when the sentences are handed out."

"What did he promise you, Harold?" Raylan asked, still leaning on him. "Money? Because there is no money. Mags Bennett's money is gone. Dickie is playing you."

"How did you find out it was Dickie?" he squeaked, sinking even lower.

Raylan flashed Art a smile.

"We want their names, Mr. Lair," Art said tapping his finger on the table. "And we want to hear about Dickie Bennett's involvement in this. Now!"

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

The Force was not with Tim today. He reached out with his right arm trying to snag the water glass on the side table next to his hospital bed, willing it to slide the few inches into his grasp. His mouth and throat were so dry he was desperate for a drink, but not so desperate that he was going to try moving again. Moving was agony. He huffed in frustration and dropped his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes and giving up.

When he opened them again Raylan was leaning against the door frame looking at him.

"I am so glad to see you," Tim croaked.

"Must be good drugs," Raylan smiled.

"Can you get me that water? Please," Tim begged.

Raylan walked over and passed him the glass. He watched Tim drink half of it in one go and then sigh contentedly.

"It'd be tragic if you survived a stabbing only to die of thirst," Raylan said, settling into a chair. "How're you feeling?"

"I can actually think straight…sort of."

"I didn't know they performed brain surgery on you," Raylan remarked.

"They messed around a bit when they had me under, trying to bring my intellect down to a level with yours," Tim replied. "Thought it might be less frustrating for me."

Raylan grinned glad to have snarky-Tim back. "I think they went a little too far."

"Don't make me laugh. It hurts."

Raylan chuckled. "So, Tim, tell me that your friends in the alley introduced themselves and told you their plans for the week."

"Sorry," Tim said, slowly shaking his head. "The whole dance took maybe two minutes. We didn't talk much. I didn't even get a good look at their faces." He took another sip of water. "I can tell you what the pavement looked like."

"We interviewed the pavement and are pretty convinced there was no complicity there," said Raylan. "The dumpster's still on our list of suspects."

Tim chuckled then winced. "I said don't make me laugh," he groaned.

"Actually it doesn't matter that you don't remember them," said Raylan. "Harold rolled right over and played dead. We've got their names. Carl Finley and Daryl Strong – mean anything to you?"

"Nope."

"Didn't think it would. Anyway, we're looking for them," Raylan said.

"God, I feel stupid. I should have checked at the corner. I ran full-out into it. Fucking stupid."

"We all get too focused on the task sometimes," Raylan cajoled. He preferred the chuckling-wincing Tim to the self-abusing Tim. "Remember when Dickie Bennett, of all people, got the jump on me and hung me up in a tree? Shit, hanging there – you want to know what it's like to feel stupid."

"That's why you have to have a spotter," Tim slurred. His eyes had started to drift shut.

Raylan took Tim's water, filled it up and set it within reach. He had more he wanted to say but there wasn't much point.

"I'll let Art know you're somewhat coherent," he said standing up to leave. "He wants to talk to you."

Tim opened his eyes drowsily and tried to focus on Raylan. "Okay," he said and then gave up.

* * *

Art tried visiting Tim twice on Wednesday after Raylan had reported that he'd talked to him, and two more times the next morning, but he was always asleep. Finally, on Thursday afternoon, he caught him awake. Tim was looking almost civilized. He had changed into his own clothes, shaved and was sitting propped up in bed, a book resting on his knees, reading. Art assumed Rachel had been looking after him. He'd have to remember to thank her.

"Tim," he said.

"Chief," Tim replied and gave him a half grin.

"Nice to see you awake. I was starting to take it personally, like you were faking sleeping every time I came in."

"Actually, I'm faking being awake right now," Tim responded. He looked liked he meant it.

"Good story?" Art asked pulling a chair closer to the bed.

"Couldn't tell you," Tim answered. "I've read the first page a dozen times. I'm still not sure what it says." He tossed the book on the bed and sighed.

"I see Rachel's been around," Art commented, taking in the flowers, fruit, stack of books and clothes in the closet.

"God, the IOU's are so heavily weighted in her favor right now, I'm going to have to start playing basketball," said Tim despondently. "I can't play for shit."

"Rachel plays basketball?" Art asked.

"No, Nick."

"Oh," Art nodded his understanding and chuckled. "Better get practicing."

"Yeah," Tim said through gritted teeth.

"Got some family photos for you to look at." Art opened a file on his lap and handed it to Tim. "Raylan told you that Harold gave us the names of the assholes in the alley, right?"

"I vaguely remember," Tim replied taking the file and looking at the first photo, Carl Finley. He started to flip through the rap sheet, curious.

Art handed him the second one with a photo of Daryl Strong. "Well, recognize either of them?"

Tim just shook his head. Art thought he looked 'off'. He was still pale, with heavy dark circles under his eyes, hardly surprising considering the week's events, but it was more than that. Art was good at his job because he was observant and he wasn't happy with what he was seeing. Maybe it was just the drugs. He continued to study Tim while he read through the second file.

"How are you feeling?" he finally asked.

Tim shrugged with as small a movement as possible. "Good."

"Bullshit."

"Okay, I'm sore," Tim said tersely, tilting his head and glaring at his boss.

"And grumpy," added Art.

"And bored. How long have I got in here?"

"You make it sound like a prison term," said Art.

Tim closed the files and set them aside, then picked up the book again and started fidgeting with it, avoiding eye contact. "I need to keep busy, Art."

"Being bored's not so bad. Enjoy the down time. Relax," Art said.

"I'm not good with down time," Tim replied tensely.

"You'll be busy soon enough," Art pointed out.

Tim dropped the book back on the bed. "You're not getting it. _I need to keep busy_ ," he repeated more forcefully.

"You're right, Tim, I'm not getting it," Art responded, wondering what Tim wasn't saying. "Maybe you could explain to me what the problem is. You were bleeding to death in an alley three days ago. What did you expect? That you'd be up and about by now?"

Tim raised both hands to his face but remembered in time that he had a cast on his left arm and stopped short of smacking himself with it. He settled for rubbing his eyes with only his right.

"I just need to keep busy," Tim said again almost pleadingly. "I can't just sit around. I start thinking and remembering shit. I can't deal with it if I can't run or work or read or…"

"Drink?" Art finished for him, getting it now.

"Well it's not like they're serving here, and besides I'm working on that," Tim said angrily. "I've cut that way back."

"Good," Art replied sincerely, "I'm glad to hear it."

"I need to keep busy," said Tim a fourth time and dropped his head. "It gets bad if I don't."

Tim's rant, maybe less of a rant and more of a plea, disturbed Art. He was certain that the memories Tim wanted to avoid were from his time in Afghanistan. This was the closest he'd ever heard him come to confessing that he was still dealing with it. Art rubbed his head and tried to think of something he might do to help.

"Let me talk to the doctor," he offered. "I'm sure they'd be happy to get your grumpy fidgety ass out of here early. But Tim, you know you're still going to have time off. You won't be back on active duty for a while."

Tim looked at Art like he'd thrown him a lifeline. "I can keep myself busy at home," he said earnestly.

"Alright then, I'll see what I can do, but what about in the meantime?"

Tim trailed his hand over the cover of his book, tracing the title. "Got any mindless jobs that don't involve wrestling in alleys?" he asked looking up.

Art thought about it for a minute. "You know, I've got just the thing. Under any other circumstances you'd hate me for asking you to do it. I've got a box of old forensics reports from unsolved cases, ballistics and the like. It all has to be manually entered into the new system and no one's ever had the time to do it. It'll be boring as shit but it'll keep you occupied. Can you type one-handed?"

"I'll manage," Tim said gratefully.

"I'll get you a lap-top before the end of the day. I was going to make you do it for getting the car stolen, but it's hardly punishment now since you're actually happy about it." Art added the last comment to try and lighten Tim's mood a little.

Tim gave him another half grin. "I promise I'll complain. A lot. Okay?"

Art stood up. "Let me go find Phil. I'll be right back."

Art stepped out into the hall and almost walked into a young woman leaning against the wall just outside Tim's room.

"Excuse me," he said then stopped and looked at her suspiciously. She wasn't hospital staff. "Can I help you?"

"Are you the Chief Deputy?" she asked.

"Art Mullen," he replied. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Dr. Cajic, the temporary psychologist," she said, then shrugged at the title. "Miljana." She smiled and offered her hand.

Art shook it and smiled back. "Lurking in hallways?"

"I confess. I was eavesdropping."

"Walk with me. I have to talk to the doctor." He took her arm and led her down the hallway to the nurses' station. "How much did you overhear?" Art asked pointedly.

"All the important bits," she replied equally bluntly. "Do you think he'd mind if I visited him?"

"I really don't care if he minds or not. Visit him as often as you like. He can't run right now," Art replied. He asked the nurse on duty if Phil was available and she offered to page him. Art turned back to talk to Miljana. "What would you recommend I do for him?"

"Exactly what you're doing. And I promise I'll visit him. A lot. Okay?" she said mimicking Tim's words and smiling.

Art chuckled. He could understand why Tim liked her and thought that she would be perfect if she weren't so damned pretty. He watched her as she walked back down the hall and slipped into Tim's room and decided he'd better remind his Deputy that he was not allowed to date the department psychologist.

Phil hailed him from his office door and Art headed over to meet him. He briefed him on Tim's military background and asked for some consideration about getting him home sooner.

"Afghanistan, huh? I wondered," said Phil. "Let's see. He came in Monday night." He counted off the days on his fingers, stopping at five. "Usually we like to keep them in a full week if they've had surgery, but he might be able to go home on the weekend. He seems to be healing fine. I'll come in on Saturday and make a decision. Is there someone who can pick him up and stay with him for at least a couple of days? It'd be best to keep an eye on him for a bit longer and make sure he doesn't overdo it."

"I'll find someone," Art said.

"Okay then," Phil agreed. He stopped, obviously thinking. "Was that his girlfriend?"

"Department psychologist."

"Oh, good. Send her to find me when she's done," he said. He patted Art's arm and left.

Art headed back to the room, but stopped halfway and turned around and went to get a coffee. He thought it a good idea to leave Tim alone with the psychologist for a bit.

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

Miljana knocked lightly at the door and stepped into the hospital room. Tim was making another attempt at his book. He looked up expecting Art and was surprised to see her instead. He was also surprised at the range of emotions she evoked in him. He really couldn't decide if he was happy to see her or not. He felt extremely vulnerable and made a clumsy attempt to cross his arms, fighting with the cast, an IV, sore ribs and bandages. He finally settled for drawing his knees up a little tighter.

She caught all the body language and stopped her approach.

"Do you mind if I come in?" she asked.

"I don't know," Tim answered, his expression guarded. "Did Art send you?"

"No, I came here without any prompting," she replied. "Though I did run into him in the hall – literally. He almost knocked me over. He's a big man."

"You should be more careful in hallways," he admonished.

"You should be more careful in alleyways," she retorted.

"Where I grew up there were no alleyways. I'm a babe in the woods," he said, relaxing a little.

"Oh, sure. 'Babe in the woods' – that's the first thing that comes to mind when I think of you," she mocked. She walked over and sat in Art's chair propping her feet up on the frame of the bed.

"What are you reading?" she asked holding out her hand for the book.

He passed it to her and she turned it over to read the back. It was a history of debt from the beginning of civilization. She made a disgusted sound and tossed it behind her onto the floor. She reached into her bag and pulled out a dog-eared book which she handed to him.

"I can't believe you're trying to read that on morphine," she scoffed. "Try this one. It's a true story about a wildlife warden in Eastern Russia who has to hunt a man-eating Siberian Tiger. Much more interesting."

He opened it to read the summary.

"How many people did you kill in Afghanistan?"

"Excuse me?" he lashed out, glaring at her. The question had blind-sided him and he sat gaping at her.

She looked steadily back at him.

"I didn't keep count," he stated angrily.

"Do you regret them?" she asked.

"Should I?" he snapped back.

"There is no should or shouldn't," Miljana replied firmly. "I'm just trying to find out what the memories are that you want so badly to avoid."

Ordinarily she would never have been so blunt, but he was at a disadvantage and she grabbed the opportunity. He looked like he was pacing behind the bars of a cage. Open the gate and he'd be gone. She watched him struggle.

"I've never had a problem pulling the trigger," he said eventually, looking at her in defiance.

"Look," she entreated. "Forget that I'm a psychologist for a minute and explain something to me because I have no experience in this. There are soldiers who can't pull the trigger, aren't there."

_Damn her_ , he thought but he answered anyway. "I trained with a guy in sniper school – came to it, he couldn't pull. They took him off the front line pretty quick. You could never tell till you were in the shit who was going to panic, who was going to freeze."

"Do you regret that you weren't one of those guys?" she asked.

He stared at her for a moment, judging her. "No," he said firmly then reconsidered. "Well, maybe at one time. But I met up with that sniper later. It was eating at him that _he_ couldn't be like _me_. That's fucked. I got over that thinking in a hurry." He paused and picked at his cast. "It's the shots I didn't take that get me. The IED we didn't spot. The Taliban sniper we didn't get to in time so he got to kill another one of our guys. Those are the faces I remember. That's the shit I think about. What if I'd done something different? What if I gone left instead of right? What if I'd taken a little more time, been a little more careful? I replay those scenarios till it drives me crazy. All the fucking 'what-ifs' with the huge fucking consequences."

She smiled kindly. Small victories, she thought.

"And that's why you like to keep busy," Miljana concluded.

"Yeah." He turned his head away from her and stared at the blank wall.

"You're a soldier, Tim. The world will always need soldiers." She let that sink in then added, "And if there's a zombie apocalypse, I'm hanging out with you."

He gave her a funny look.

"Double tap," she said, grinning at him.

He grinned back, getting the reference. "I loved that movie." And he loved her smile. She confused the hell out of him.

She looked up at him shyly. "Is it true that you snipers have to sometimes shit in your pants while you're out there for days at a time, sitting in a hole?"

He stared at her in disbelief. "Jesus, I can't believe you just asked me that."

She shrugged and grinned sheepishly. "You're the only sniper I know. Who else can I ask? I'm sure most people wonder…" she trailed off and brought her hand to her mouth, stifling a giggle.

"Most people are too polite to ask," he said shaking his head at her. "Fuck."

She tried to keep a straight face, but wasn't having much luck.

"You never heard of Imodium," he dead-panned.

She looked at him trying to gauge if he was serious. "Glad to see the bathroom when you got back to base?"

"We purposely didn't eat or drink much when we were out, but yeah," he rolled his eyes then started smirking and ducked his head. "I got to read a lot."

At that the two of them started laughing. Art chose that moment to walk back in.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

* * *

Art returned to the hospital regularly after his talk with Tim, checking up on him. Miljana was as good as her word and he would often run into her on her way to or from a visit with his most worrisome Deputy. Tim seemed less edgy now that he had something to occupy his time and he was more than halfway through the box of old evidence when Art arrived on Sunday afternoon. Phil had called to say he would release him and had suggested that Art come to hear his instructions, to ensure they would be followed.

Tim was sporting a new cast on his left arm. It was pink.

Art stared at it. "What the hell, Tim?" he asked perplexed. "Pink?"

Tim shrugged.

"Did they run out of blue?"

"It's October," Tim said enigmatically.

Art looked at him blankly.

"October – breast cancer month. Rachel dared me to get pink and charge people to sign it and give the money to charity." He raised his arm and held out a marker. "Ten bucks."

"Do you do everything Rachel tells you?" Art asked incredulously.

"Yeah. Don't you?" Tim replied without a trace of sarcasm.

Fortunately Raylan walked in at that moment and saved Art from having to answer.

"Ready to get out of here?" Raylan asked. He had volunteered to get Tim home and stay with him until Rachel could take over later. He reached for the jar of donations on the table and waved it under Art's nose. "Pay up and sign."

"If I find out you're buying beer with that money," he threatened but grabbed the marker and wrote on the pink cast. When he was done he admired his work then fished through his wallet and stuffed a ten-dollar bill in the jar.

"What's that?" asked Tim checking out his cast. Art had scrawled a happy face in an obvious spot.

"It's art," he replied. "Get it. Art - art."

"That's just not funny," said Raylan.

Art left to find Phil, complaining about the lack of appreciation for his talents. Raylan wheeled Tim out to the car, helped him in and drove him home.

They pulled up to the curb and Tim tried to get himself out. Raylan watched him struggling to find a way to get up without putting stress on his wounds and laughed when Tim finally threw up his arms and huffed in frustration.

"Can I just sleep here in the car?" he asked dejectedly.

"C'mon invalid," Raylan said and hauled him out. Tim walked slowly up the steps to his house, staggered through the door and collapsed on the couch in the front room, exhausted by the effort. Raylan followed him in.

"Make yourself at home," Tim said.

Raylan looked around. The house was small, one in a row of three sandwiched between apartment blocks, holdouts from the contractors in the 1980's housing boom. Nothing matched, but it was clean.

"Reminds me of my granny's place," Raylan teased. "How old is this furniture?"

"I replace it when it wears out," Tim responded. "I did get a new couch. I think the old one was stuffed with horsehair."

"You're renting it furnished, I hope," said Raylan.

"I inherited it furnished," Tim replied.

Raylan did a tour of the main floor which took about ten seconds. "Have you considered redecorating?"

Tim looked at him with a bemused expression. "Seriously, can you see me decorating? Hillbilly meets army cammo. At least like this I can blame someone else for the lack of taste."

"You have a point," Raylan conceded as he wandered into the kitchen. "How about a table cloth at least? I know from first-hand experience just how useful they can be."

"I clean my guns on that table."

"I hope you draw the curtains first. The old lady behind you might get worried," said Raylan peering through the window to the back yard.

"She thinks I'm a psychopath. She hides in her house whenever I'm out back. I've taken to cleaning my rifle there on purpose," said Tim.

Raylan chuckled, picturing it. He opened the fridge and looked inside. "You want a beer?"

"No," Tim answered grumpily. "I'm on an elephant-sized dose of antibiotics. Is there anything else in there?"

"Rachel stocked it. There's everything in here."

"Shit, I'm going to owe her so much Call of Duty time."

Raylan pulled his head out of the fridge and looked over, surprised. "Rachel plays Call of Duty?"

"No, Nick does," Tim replied. "I feel like I've had this conversation before."

Raylan grabbed a beer and poured Tim some juice and they settled in the living room to watch some post-season baseball. Art joined them later, helping himself to a drink. When Rachel showed up, Tim was asleep and Art and Raylan were arguing over the value of a designated hitter in the batting line-up.

* * *

Tim's place had become the ad hoc sports bar for watching post-season baseball. Any of the Marshals who felt inclined would wander over with a case of beer to watch whoever was playing that day. But now the baseball season was over and Art sat at his desk staring out at the office a bit depressed. It's not that he cared who won the World Series, but the post-season play marked the time they had been chasing the two suspects in Tim's assault. It had been over a month and they had come up with nothing. It was clear the investigation had stalled. The leads were cold, the case was cold and Daryl Strong and Carl Finley were in the wind.

It was always frustrating to set a case aside but especially so when it involved an assault on a law enforcement officer, and one of their own at that. Every branch from the feds on down to the local sheriffs' offices was cooperative, and local, state-wide and national bulletins were issued but they had yet to turn up anything. Art caught Rachel's attention and waved her and Raylan into his office to tell them he couldn't justify the manpower any longer. Rachel was not happy about it.

"We can't just stop looking," she said.

"We're not going to stop looking, Rachel, you know that's not how it works," he replied. "But we've got a backlog of casework to handle and with Tim only coming back to light duty next week it's just going to get worse. Now don't argue with me on this one. I hate doing it but we've got to be realistic. They've likely left the state. They know we have Harold Lair in custody. They'll assume he named them."

"What about Raylan?" she asked. "What if they try again?"

"I don't think that's likely. I'm sure the word's already out that we've caught on to Dickie's involvement. With this added charge he's going away so long they'll never be able to cash in on his promises. The prosecuting attorney in his case is all over it," Art assured her.

He shuffled some papers around on his desk and tried to feel good about his decision. "Besides," he added, "there's always someone who wants to kill Raylan. He's used to it. Right, Raylan? You're awfully quiet over there."

"Getting Dickie Bennett was the main thing," Raylan said, taking Art's side.

Rachel was too practical to argue it further but too involved to let it go easily. As soon as she could she left work and stopped by Tim's place on the way home to give him the news and commiserate with him. To her surprise, he took it rather philosophically. You don't often get the chance for face-to-face retribution in war. It just wasn't part of his experience, so he didn't expect it or need it.

He just shrugged it off and offered her a drink. And happily poured himself one, too.

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Tim sat huddled in the corner on the roof of an old building, holding his rifle and watching the crowd on the street below. The rain was dripping off his hood, his gloves and pants were soaked through and he was starting to get cold. He ran through a series of isometric exercises to try to warm up and keep from getting stiff. He cursed the late November weather and cursed himself for not taking the extra week off when Art suggested it.

Truthfully though, he was glad to be back on active duty even if one of his first assignments was court security in shitty weather. Tim wasn't afraid of much except time, time footloose and alone. He would see ghosts, and he dreaded it. His solution was to keep busy and he went about it methodically and obsessively. He checked off every house repair on his list, read through any article he could find on new sniper weapons, techniques and ammunition, started a physics course for a part-time studies degree at the university, faithfully applied himself to his rehab and then some, and gave all of his weapons a thorough cleaning. When he needed a rest he'd read. And when he was fit enough he was back at the range honing his skills and finally back on the paths running. He would only break to eat and sleep or hang out when someone came to visit, especially if it was Miljana who had taken to making house calls.

He was certainly fit for duty. His left arm was still a bit weak and that pissed him off but other than that he felt well enough and confident enough to be sitting in the rain behind his rifle, watching through the scope for targets.

This was not really court security. It was a public meeting to take questions on an EPA report for another proposed coal project and there had been threats against the government representatives who had signed off on it. Tim wasn't sure how he felt about the whole issue. His time in Afghanistan had blown holes in his moral certitude and he wasn't as quick to pass judgment anymore. He would happily have taken up a quiet rural life like Thoreau, ignoring the world, but he figured the solitude would have driven him to a desperate familiarity with his handgun. So instead he did his work thoroughly, changed the oil in his truck and checked out the specs on new sniper scopes.

The one he was using today was one he'd bought himself. There was no way Art could have put it through on a purchase order, it was too expensive.

He tapped his earpiece when it started crackling. It was probably shorting out somewhere with all this rain. _Communication is key_ was a phrase one of his ranking NCOs always barked at them and he swore once if he heard it again he would shoot the guy. Now here he was repeating it back to himself. He checked the time, glad for his waterproof watch, rolled his shoulders and settled back into position, scanning rooftops and windows.

He saw the door to the building open and watched Raylan and another Marshal escorting the officials through the crowd of protestors gathered out front. Raylan made sure they were safely in their car with their security team then walked toward his vehicle at the corner. The officials' car was pulling out onto the road when Tim noticed Art waving to him, giving him the 'all clear' signal. He guessed his radio had finally given up.

He was just standing up when he heard the shot. He crouched down quickly and put his eye to the scope, searching for the source. He wasn't the only one to react. The crowd stood for a moment in disbelief then started to scatter in panic, running in every direction like shrapnel from a blast point centered in front of the meeting hall. Tim watched Rachel point to a building out of his line of sight and head off at a run with two officers. He was about to move to the other side of the roof to offer support when someone in the crowd caught his eye.

One man was walking deliberately against the flow of fleeing protestors. Only Tim, from his vantage point, could see the anomaly in his movement. He focused in on his face but a baseball cap covered his features. His left arm was swinging freely but his right hand was firmly planted in the pocket of his jacket. The body language screamed concealed weapon. Tim followed him in his path, moving the rifle with him. He wanted to get someone's attention but with the radio out, the only way to do that would be to take his eye off the suspect.

He lifted his head from his scope for a moment to see where the man was heading, not for the officials' car, the obvious target, but for Raylan who had his back to him. Tim set the man in his sights, flicked off the safety and steadied his breathing. When the suspect pulled the handgun out of his pocket and pointed it at Raylan, Tim squeezed the trigger.

The sound of a second shot gave the slowing crowd renewed energy. The block was quickly emptied of protestors and the car carrying the visitors sped away. Soon all that remained were the security team of Marshals and a few local police officers. Tim stayed on the roof, still searching the area. He saw Raylan walk over and look at the body behind him. He stooped down and pulled the weapon out of the gunman's hand then turned and looked up at Tim. He tipped his hat. Tim grinned at the Raylan gesture.

Rachel and a local walked into view leading a man in handcuffs and put him into the back of a cruiser. Rachel, Art and Raylan stood talking for a moment then all three of them looked his way. Art started waving up at him again so he picked up his rifle and headed down to the street. He walked out of the building and squelched across the road to where they were standing.

"Gee Tim," said Raylan, "I didn't know you cared."

"Cared enough to send the very best," he replied.

"Glad to see you haven't lost the skills," Raylan added more seriously.

"But I was aiming for you," Tim responded, equally serious.

Raylan grinned. "Well, come see the guy you shot instead."

The four of them walked over to where the gunman still lay on the sidewalk. It was another perfect shot, just behind the right ear.

"Recognize him?" Raylan asked.

"Shit," Tim exclaimed. "That's Carl Finley. What the hell?"

"Yeah," Art concurred. "What the hell?"

"And we've got Daryl Strong in the car," added Rachel.

* * *

The following morning Rachel took over the conference room, spreading files and evidence bags over the table. She worked carefully, checking and double checking that everything was properly reported. She didn't want to give the defense any cracks in their testimony to get a finger hold in.

Once Harold had given them the evidence they needed to show that the attack in the alley was meant for Raylan, Art had pulled the case out from under him and given it to Rachel. Raylan wasn't happy about it, but had to concede the point. Neither he nor Art wanted the case thrown out for prejudice. Rachel had gone about it with more than her usual diligence. And since the victim was Tim, she had taken it personally when the trail had gone cold and they were told to stop wasting man-hours actively hunting for the suspects. Now that the case had closure she was gleefully attacking the report, her frustration from the last two months finally finding an outlet.

Tim went out for coffee around 10:30am and brought one for Rachel. He wandered into the conference room, set her cup down beside her and looked at the organized piles. She had the items found on the body of Carl Finley laid out in front of her and the items taken from Daryl Strong when he was arrested in a separate box at the end of the table. Rachel glanced up and smiled then went back to her work.

Tim peered into the box then looked over the items on the table. He picked up a knife and stared at it. Rachel watched his face curious to see his reaction, but he gave none. He set the knife back on the table and continued his examination of the other objects. He cocked his head to one side and frowned. Reaching across her he picked up a handgun and held it out for Rachel to see with a questioning look.

"That's Finley's," she said. "Raylan took it off him after you shot him. Art wants it sent out for ballistics to add to the federal database."

"Finley had this?" he asked, confirming.

She nodded. "Why?"

He didn't answer right away, just stood looking closely at the gun, turning it over in his hands.

"I've never seen one like this," he finally said. "It looks like a P7, but it's got some non-standard features."

"Like what," she asked, not really interested but patiently entertaining his passion for firearms.

"A suppressor thread for one," he explained pointing to the muzzle. "Can I borrow this a minute?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"You shouldn't take that," she called out to him. "Hello, does chain of custody mean anything to you? Tim, you'd better bring that back quickly!"

She huffed, watching him march back to his desk. He tossed the evidence bag down and started banging away on his keyboard.

An hour later she'd finished itemizing the objects and walked over to Tim's desk. He was concentrating, his eyes going back and forth from his computer screen to the gun which he had balanced on his open palm. She snatched the evidence bag out of his hand and glared at him.

He looked up at her and gestured to the weapon. "It's a rare handgun," he said to explain his interest.

She continued to glare at him.

He rolled his eyes and glared back. "Can I get a copy of the evidence photo then?"

"Maybe," she replied tersely.

"And can I see the ballistics report when it comes back?" he requested.

"Maybe," she answered as she headed back to the conference room. "If you're good."

After lunch Art strolled out of his office and stopped in front of Raylan's desk. Rachel was finishing her work back at her computer, and even Raylan was making a rare appearance in his chair. Art smiled at them; he had some news.

"Well," he started happily, "I just heard that Ms. Ootes will not be returning."

He turned to see Tim's reaction but it was Rachel who let out a whoop and punched her fist in the air.

"Any particular reason?" Tim asked, looking sideways at Rachel and grinning.

"Now, the rest of it is just hearsay and I don't approve of spreading gossip," Art stated sanctimoniously.

He stuck his chin up and looked at them down his nose for a minute then leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "She was having an affair. She's filed for a divorce and has run away with her Yoga instructor to California."

* * *

Just before 4pm, Tim headed out to the elevator. He ran into Art coming off and the Chief held out a hand to stop him.

"Rachel tells me you're looking into Finley's handgun," he said.

"Yeah. It's an unusual one. If it's what I think it is, there aren't many of them around," explained Tim. "I've emailed the photo to a friend for confirmation."

Art nodded then asked, "Where are you headed?"

"Appointment with the psychologist," Tim replied. He ran his hand through his hair and studiously avoided looking at his boss.

"For the shooting?"

Tim nodded and looked at the ground.

"That was only yesterday. Aren't you supposed to let that fester for a week or two first?" Art said looking at Tim suspiciously.

"Department policy," Tim said shrugging. "Got to suck it up."

"She's applied for the job, you know," said Art.

"I know."

"Tim," Art stated, including a full warning in his tone.

"I know," Tim responded impatiently and ducked around him opting for the stairs.

Art scowled and watched him go.

* * *


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

Rachel smiled at Tim over his computer screen. "Going for coffee this morning?" she asked sweetly.

"Wasn't planning to. Why?"

"Ballistics came back," she taunted dangling a piece of paper for him.

He reached for it and she pulled it out of his range.

"Coffee," she demanded.

He was up, one foot on his chair, one foot on his desk and over so suddenly Rachel didn't have time to react. He snatched the report out of her hand as he dropped to the floor and held it above her head, backing up as she lunged at him. He didn't see Art come out of his office behind him. Art pulled the paper out of Tim's hand as he stumbled backward, dodging Rachel and laughing.

"If you've got so much energy, go outside and play," Art grumbled at them and handed the report back to Rachel.

She smiled smugly. Tim used the distraction to snatch the paper back again and sprinted behind Art to his desk. He sat down, skimming the information, and held out his right arm to block her as she came after him. Something on the page caught his attention and he frowned in concentration. Rachel caught the change in his demeanor and stopped the horse-play.

"They got a match," he said. "There's a homicide case number from Florida." He gave the report back to her, cocked his head to one side and stared at her thoughtfully.

"What?" she asked.

He ignored the question and started rifling through some files on his desk.

"I made you a copy," she admitted, setting the report down on his keyboard.

He found what he was searching for, pulled a sheet of paper out of the pile and leaned over the copy comparing the two.

"What?" she asked again. Eventually she became impatient and turned to leave. Art waved her into his office. When she came out twenty minutes later there was a coffee waiting for her.

* * *

Tim tossed a file onto Raylan's desk, scattering his work.

"Oliver Wendell Holmes," he drawled out, looking at Raylan with a know-it-all expression, "Junior."

Raylan huffed and bent over to pick up the papers that had fluttered to the floor. He looked up at Tim impatiently, not interested in his games today.

"If he's not a person of interest in one my cases then you and Ollie can just piss-off back to your corner," said Raylan making little shooing motions with his hands.

Tim tilted his head to the side and looked cockily at Raylan then proceeded despite him.

"Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. was the first person to use forensic ballistics to get a conviction in a murder case in 1902," he recited. "He's also a huge figure in the history of American jurisprudence."

"For crying out loud, Tim, I'm busy," Raylan snapped, moving Tim's file aside and continuing to type. "Maybe there's someone else interested in your history lesson."

"And that means," Tim continued, ignoring him, "he's ultimately responsible for explaining the enigma which is Carl Finley." He leaned over and tapped his finger on the file as he said the name.

Raylan stopped typing and looked up. "Okay, you've got my attention."

"Remember that handgun Finley had on him? I knew it was an H&K P7 model, but I'd never seen one like it so I looked it up. It's a P7M13-SD, manufactured by Heckler and Koch for the German Special Forces. You won't find them here often, and if you do, they're expensive."

Rachel wasn't at her desk so Tim grabbed her chair and rolled it over to sit down.

"The ballistics report came through on it and I was curious – rare gun, you know?" he said happily discussing his favorite topic. "Thing is, the ballistics markings on the casing matched another report that was in that box of old forensics shit, the one Art had me working on while I was laid up."

"You remembered one report from that stack when you were all drugged up?" Raylan asked in disbelief. "Buddy, you need to get a life."

Tim shrugged, "It stood out because it _wasn't_ that old, not like the others. I figured someone misfiled it, so I left it out. It's been sitting on my desk while I decided what to do with it."

Art and Rachel walked through the doors into the office at that moment and Tim gave up Rachel's seat, leaning on the filing cabinet behind her. Art looked at the two men curiously.

"What are you two plotting? You're not bored, are you?" he asked.

Raylan pointed at Tim and said, "He was just explaining about Carl Finley."

"What about Finley?" Art asked.

"Why he was so hell bent on getting Raylan," Tim answered. He picked up the file that he'd tossed on Raylan's desk and opened it. He pulled out two pieces of paper from inside and handed them to Art.

"This," Tim said, pointing to one sheet, "is the ballistics on the handgun Raylan pulled from Finley last week. And this one is from that box of old reports you gave me to input." He tapped the second one. "Check out the specs on the casings."

Art pulled out his reading glasses and studied the reports for a moment. "They're identical. Same gun."

"Uh-huh. Now check where the older report was issued," Tim said, nodding to the one in Art's left hand.

"Huh," said Art, "Miami." He gave Raylan a meaningful look.

"Do you believe in coincidences?" Tim asked.

"Not for a minute," replied Art.

"Finley was sent up for assault here in Kentucky which is how he met Dickie Bennett and Daryl Strong, but he's originally from Florida," Tim explained. "His real name is Calvin Fischer."

He passed a surveillance photo of Calvin Fischer from the Miami case file to Raylan.

"Well, well," said Raylan. "Either Carl has a twin or... "

"Or he was hiding here with a new name," Tim finished for him. "I had a nice chat with Ted Alliston from the Miami/Dade Police Department. He's the investigator who ordered the other ballistics report."

"And how's old Ted?" Raylan asked, leaning back and smiling.

"Retiring next week. He says hi," Tim answered, nodding at Raylan. "According to Ted, Cal Fischer was his suspect of choice for the shooting in Miami. They had a witness putting him at the scene and they were looking for him and a gun. But the witness disappeared and Cal's wife provided an alibi. They couldn't do anything to him he was so lawyered up. Six months later, his wife filed for a divorce then Cal disappeared too."

He stopped and looked at them expectantly. "Someone better ask me who the wife was or this story is no fun at all."

"Who was the wife?" Raylan obliged.

"Cheryl Bucks – Tommy Bucks's sister."

There was silence while they digested the information.

"Tim," Art finally said. "Let's break your other arm and see what pops up. Maybe we can get something on Boyd Crowder. Find a report under a filing cabinet or something."

Raylan stared a little longer at the photo of Cal Fischer/Carl Finley. He turned to Tim and shook his head. "So Carl Finley is Tommy Bucks's brother-in-law?"

"Ex-brother-in-law, yeah," Tim confirmed.

"If this were a plot in a novel I'd complain that it sounded contrived," said Raylan. He scratched his head and frowned. "I vaguely remember Cheryl, but I don't recall a Cal Fischer."

"He's been in Kentucky since 1998. When did you start in Miami?" Tim asked.

"After that," Raylan nodded in understanding. "You know, Tommy Bucks had a gun collection. I remember one in particular he showed me – an old Colt revolver with a long barrel, shiny blue-tinged metal finish. He was proud of that one."

"If it's the one I'm thinking of, it's an early 1900s army issue but the blue finish is very unusual. Special order – not many made," said Tim. "I guess he had a nice collection?"

"He sure had the money for it," Raylan responded.

"I wonder what happened to it after you shot him," Tim said wistfully.

"Well, I guess that explains how Finley ended up with that rare H&K. But how did this report end up in Lexington?" Art asked, waving the paper at Tim.

"Ted sent it over with his file on Fischer years ago when Carl Finley was arrested here. He made the connection between the two from a photo," Tim explained. "He figured his file got lost because he never heard back about it and the prosecuting attorney he sent it to had a heart attack shortly after. Finley went to prison so Ted didn't bother following up."

"If I recall Ted wasn't all that thorough. He was already talking about retiring when I knew him," said Raylan. He looked over at Art. "I may have to pay a visit to Daryl Strong, see if he was privy to any of this."

"Maybe I'll join you," Tim said.

"Strangely enough," mused Raylan, "this makes me feel better about the whole thing."

"How so?" Art asked.

"I was beginning to worry that I'd underestimated Dickie Bennett, that maybe he had more of Mags in him than I gave him credit for. I just couldn't understand how he could garner enough loyalty from the likes of Finley and Strong to keep coming after a Federal Marshal. He's just such an idiot."

"Order is restored to the universe," Art stated.

"It's quitting time. I could use a drink," Raylan said standing and stretching.

"In my office."

* * *

Tim opened the gate and started up the porch steps, fumbling with his keys. When he got to the top he stopped. Miljana was curled up in his favorite chair, reading. She wasn't in her usual work clothes, just jeans and a t-shirt under a warm jacket.

"Making house calls again?" he asked, a grin creeping over his face.

"Actually I was hoping the bar was open this evening," she replied.

"You told me I shouldn't drink."

"I said you shouldn't drink _so much_. But if you prefer, just pour one for me," she shrugged. She closed her book, stood up and walked over, leaning against the house and smiling at him.

He cocked an eyebrow at her and shook his head then unlocked the door, holding it open. She brushed past him, kicked off her shoes and dumped her jacket on his couch.

He took a deep breath and followed her in.

"What'll you have?" he asked. He threw his jacket on top of hers and proceeded with the ritual of unpacking his weapons.

She watched him, curious, then finally answered, "I've always wanted to try bourbon."

"So this is serious drinking," he said motioning to the kitchen. He reached into a cupboard for two glasses and a bottle. "What's the occasion?"

"I didn't get the job."

He paused, glanced at her quickly then turned his head back to concentrate on pouring. He was working hard to suppress another grin. When he handed her the drink he had his face under control.

"So this is sympathy not celebration," he said.

"I had most of the afternoon off, so I've been walking around Lexington thinking about that," she replied.

She moved over and stood against the counter next to Tim. She was so close they were touching. Tim took another deep breath and downed his bourbon.

She smiled, leaning into him playfully. "Do you have any plans tonight? I think we're celebrating."

He let his grin escape.

* * *

the end


End file.
